Play no more

Every sound has an effect on someone, just like what I’m hearing every day outside our house—children laughing, their loud footsteps, one calling the other when it’s time to play. I’m annoyed by it.

I mean, when I hear them laugh, I can hear my own chuckle when I was younger—a chuckle brought about by pure happiness when I make a small achievement, such as when I defeat my playmates in a game, or when I can sense a near-success over them.

I think of how far I have gone from those memories, and how badly I want to return to those happy times. I realize that these memories cannot be scenes of my present life, so I stop the illusion, turn to my books or notes, and continue reviewing for an exam, writing a report, or preparing for a recitation.

It ruffles me whenever I see how different I am now. Instead of laughing with my playmates, I laugh at the papers I’m holding, because I can’t get the whole meaning of the lecture. If in the past I laughed over my playmates’ defeat, today I can only laugh after surviving the semester’s midterm and final exams, after I have beaten the pessimism trying to dominate me during those times.

This is crazy, but I’m really bothered by the children’s laughter. I could stop them from playing outside our house but I don’t want to, because I would be unfair to them if I did so. I would deprive them of the happiness I once experienced, and I have no right to do that.

The children run a lot. When I have to buy something from a store near our house, I see them running hither and thither. Their footsteps make a sound, which has the power to move me to remember how I liked to roam our street during my childhood. I ran to the store, to the school, to the narrow path to our house. I really miss running a lot.

I ran at my fastest when I had to hide quickly while my playmates were singing the hide-and-seek song: “Tagu- taguan/ Maliwanag ang buwan/ Wala sa likod/ wala sa harap/ Pagbilang kong sampu/ Nakatago na kayo.” Then the 10 seconds would start. I remember feeling the jitters when looking for a place to hide. At the end of the 10 seconds, everyone would be quiet, anxious not to be found. We squeezed ourselves anywhere just to be able to hide.

It puts a curve on my lips whenever I recall how it was; at the same time, the realization hits hard. Now I can still run physically, but not from my new responsibilities and commitments. I can still hide my physical body, but not the emotions, the stress and the disappointments I am feeling while preparing to enter the real world, while getting to know what the real world really is.

Conversely, if I was afraid to be found back in the old days, the situation has been reversed. I now want to be found by someone who’d understand me, by someone who’d be willing to listen to my random stories—my experiences, school, family, friends, and a lot more things I’m interested in—for hours, without showing any sign of indifference, of being in a hurry. I want to be found by someone who’d always motivate me to have hope, because that’s what I need now.

Just like when I was playing hide and seek as a child, I now tend to squeeze myself into someone’s life. I’m trying to find that someone, and in the process I make friends with many people, and have a close relationship with them. However, things aren’t that easy now. Unlike when I was a child, I find it harder to get along with other people. Because people, particularly grownups, truly have varied expectations. You can’t be yourself; you have to try to fit in with others.

That’s why even if I want to, I can’t squeeze myself into their lives, simply because I can’t always be acceptable to them. I end up abandoning the idea of forming tight relationships and closer ties with others. I just merely get acquainted with them, maybe just laugh with them. More than that, I’m becoming afraid of digging deeper, of knowing others better.

It annoys me when the children playing outside our house call one another when it’s time to play. I’m led back to the time when a neighbor would stand in front of our house and call out my name. It meant that I should come out and play. It was as easy as one-two-three, and then we’d prepare everything needed for the game—nothing expensive, some pieces that we found in our surroundings, like stones, empty bottles, or even our slippers.

The way it is now, someone calls me, not to play, but because they need something, or a favor. I’m called because they need answers to their questions, mostly about academics, or they want me to write a poem for their schoolwork, or to think of something for them. The excitement that once filled me when I heard someone calling my name has now been replaced by uncertainty. I’m not sure what they need from me, now that I’m capable of doing and thinking of various things.

As I grow up I notice that life gets lonelier. It goes farther away from the happy image of my childhood. Growing up seems to erase what laughter once meant. It can halt our footsteps and expose us to all the negative things that life offers. It seems to pull us back from any potentially good affiliation we can make: “People don’t really need you and they will leave you, anyway, so why bother getting close to them? Grow up!”

Nevertheless, growing up is a special part of our life. It is like a final exam that results in a mark of “passed” or “failed,” depending on how we respond to it. Yet growing up, however big it may seem, is just a part of us. It’s a hanging bridge in our life, something to walk carefully on in order to avoid falling into the deep hole of immaturity.

We may be afraid to overcome it, but just consider how beautiful it is to be on the other side.

Lorraine Mae C. Nevado, 16, is a journalism freshman at the Polytechnic University of the Philippines in Sta. Mesa, Manila.